


You can't spell slaughter without laughter

by cucumber_of_doom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, people being turned on by violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 17:52:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1135669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cucumber_of_doom/pseuds/cucumber_of_doom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What to do in a romantic cottage by the sea. (Hint: It's murder.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	You can't spell slaughter without laughter

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to DreammasterLoki for betareading :D

The sound of waves breaking on the shore made for soothing background noise in the small whitewashed cottage by the sea. There was even a tiny garden separating it from the seldom used footpath leading up from the remote beach, completely abandoned by tourists this time of the year. Some would have gone so far as to called the place romantic. A lovely place, removed enough to not alarm any neighbors with loud noises, which came in all too handy now. No one would have expected a bloodied man to be tied to a chair in the cozy living-room with it's light walls and open kitchen area.   
Casually leaning against the counter separating said kitchen from the rest of the room, stood Jim Moriarty, his charcoal-gray suit, spotless as always, looking down on the unfortunate man who had wronged him.

“I think, Mr. Becket, you now see how trying to disappear after forgetting to pay back the money you owe me me for my generous help was a bad idea,” he spoke into the near silence of the cozy holiday retreat.

The only answer he got from the man was a wheezing cough, followed by a wince. Not that Jim cared anyway, not at this point. He looked at his second-in-command, who stood next to their unfortunate guest. Jim raised an eyebrow and tilted his head towards the toolkit spread on the pristine dining table in silent command.

“How about the other hand next, Seb?” he suggested casually, watching Moran pick up the hammer and Becket’s eyes widening. Delightful.

“You will get your money! Fuck, I... I will double it, triple it. You want information? I will tell you everything!”, he begged, gaze fixed on the tool in the sniper’s hand and wasn't that a pretty sight?  
Jim held up a hand and walked three steps closer, enough to be sure the man's focus was on him and not the more direct threat of whatever Moran planned to do next.

“The money? That is where you are misled— you still think I care for what you have to say. Yes, loosing that money is a hassle, but see: whatever you know, it is not very much and I have a reputation to keep. I can't have people walk away after trying to fuck me over. That would be bad for business.”

The last words were a hiss and made Mr. Becket flinch again, split lip, possibly broken cheekbone and all. Not a pretty thing to see.

“Please…” Becket tried again, cut off immediately by Jim.

“No. No, no, no. You don't get to ask for stuff anymore: you fucked up, Becket. You lied to me. You tried to run away and not only that: you betrayed me. You sold your knowledge to my enemies to double your profit.”

Jim snapped his fingers and Moran took the clue to tear another strip of duct-tape from the role and roughly taped Becket's mouth shut. It did little to turn down the volume but kept him from successfully interrupting. Jim shook his head.

“What made you think that could be a good idea? I’m sure even in some parallel universe this would be a bad idea. What did you expect? A long, comfortable life in the countryside? It doesn’t work like that, Becket. You betray me, you die. As simple as that.”

Moran chose that exact moment to bring the hammer down on the man's left hand which was involuntary splayed on top of the armrest it was taped to. The resulting crunch was nearly drowned out by the muffled scream the man let loose, agony winning over whatever shred of dignity he had clung to this moment. Ordinary people were disappointingly predictable.

Jim turned away and walked back around the kitchen counter, rummaging through one of the drawers in search of _something_ to make Mr Becket’s inevitable end more entertaining. A bullet to the head? Too quick. No fun. Boring.

“He lied to me,” he said after a minute, picking up something Moran was not able to see from where he stood.

“I know, boss,” Moran replied, calmly waiting for instructions. He did not have to wait long for Jim to look up with a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

“What is it that we do with liars, Moran?” he asked and Moran grinned, remembering another traitor they dealt with some weeks ago.

“We cut out their tongues, Boss.”

“How I love working with you. Always remembering the important thing,” Jim shoved the drawer shut with his hip and stalked back around the counter.

“Use these,” he said, throwing Moran the pair of gleaming new kitchen scissors he had retrieved. “He went through the trouble to rent the cottage. We should use what he paid for. Anything but would simply be rude.”

Becket started trashing in his bonds, eyes wide in panic and screaming into the gag. He knocked over the chair, hitting his head on the floor in the process - luckily not hard enough to knock himself out, if the pitiful groans were anything to go by.

Moran jerked him back up and tore the tape from his mouth while forcing his jaw open in one fluid, practised motion. By the time he shoved the scissors into the thrashing man's mouth and cut Jim had already crept closer and giddily watched blood bubble from the man's lips.

“That's messy,” Jim half-complained and Moran rolled his eyes before putting the tape back into place.

“You like messy.”

“Not on my shoes.”

“It isn’t on your shoes.”

“Shut up.”

Moran huffed and pulled him close, right into his personal space and closer still. Jim nearly purred at the sudden contact, giddy with the rush watching the other man kill on command.  
“Either stop whining or wipe the smug grin off your face,” the sniper suggested. “Boss,” he added as an afterthought before leaning down to bite the others lip and grope his arse. Jim responded by eagerly grinding his half hard cock against the snipers thigh.

Behind them the stertorous breathing slowly died down. Becket's face was bloody and bruised. Definitely dead. No longer entertaining.

“Make sure to send some of him back to his new employer. The head should do, that is what he wanted of him, after all,” Jim demanded between fumbling open Moran's flies and biting down on his collarbone.

“You want me to do that now?”

“Later, Seb. People say the seaside is romantic, I want you to fuck me.”

“In a romantic way?”

“In a messy way, Tiger. But throw in some romancing if that gets you off.”


End file.
